


Raspberry, Buttercream, and Impulsive Experimentation

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ace and Feral, Baking, Buttercream, Collaboration Project, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, It's ya bois, M/M, Pining, Pining John, Raspberry - Freeform, Romance, Scientific Sherlock, The Great British Bake-Off, flirtation, no cases for over a WEEK, no real smut tho sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "The more bakers there are, the larger the sample size will be. The larger the sample size, the more data I can acquire. Do try to keep up." His tone was impatient, but his eyes held a spark of mischief."Is that your way of saying you want me to help you so that you can eat more biscuits?" John teased.Baking cures boredom, essentially.This work is a collaboration between @a_feral_creative and @GoldenAceCard.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	1. One Week, Two Days, and Eight Hours

John had discovered long ago that Sherlock took telly very seriously when he was bored. And a case hadn't come in for one week, two days, and seven hours, and he was very, very bored.

"That makes one week, two days, and _eight_ hours, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically as he lay spread out on the sofa, eyes on the Great British Bake Off playing on the screen. "And Shirley's going this round. Just look at the camera angles."

John sighed and closed his laptop, making his way to collapse in his chair. "Sherlock, how could you possibly know that? It's literally only ten minutes in! And besides, I quite like her. I think it'll be Nate. Look at how his hands are shaking, he should have gone last week."

"He'll stick around because Paul Hollywood likes him, even if he is a crap baker. I mean, would you just _look_ at that eye contact!" Sherlock gesticulated at the screen, dressing gown sleeve flailing elegantly. 

It was true, unfortunately. Even huddling with Mary Berry across the tent, Paul kept glancing over at his station. "He's obviously not going before the fifth week. And the older women like Shirley are usually the ones to crack under the pressure first."

"Okay, fine. I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest triumphantly and settled further into the pillows. In the relative darkness of their sitting room, the blue light from the telly competed with the warmth of the fire to cast unfair shadows across his cheekbones, highlighting his flawless facial structure and the ever-shifting colors of his eyes. He was entirely focused on deducing the bakers and judges and hosts through the screen, and his gaze was entrancingly bright as John realized he was staring. 

_Jesus, Watson, get it together_.

Almost a year of living together, and Sherlock still had no idea about John's feelings for him. But John couldn't be upset about it. Sherlock didn't know for the same reason John didn't tell: not his area. Married to his work. Utterly clueless in the ways of emotion and attraction and, well... _love_ , not desiring it with anyone.

He managed to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's face right as he spoke again, making John jump. 

"It's quite fascinating, really."

"What is?" John asked, clearing his throat guiltily.

"The interactions between the contestants and their environment and the effect it has on their work."

"Hm. Yeah, I suppose it is."

"There's the time limit, for one; the foreign workspace; pressure from the judges; competition with each other, just to name a few. Change a few of those parameters, and the result might be completely different. Remove the pressure entirely, who knows what the resulting item would be?"

John smiled. Now there's an idea that could get Sherlock out of his black mood.

"You could find out," he suggested.

Sherlock craned his neck to look at him, a faint smile dancing upon his features, illuminating his whole face. 

"What _ever_ are you implying, John?"

~~~

By teatime the next day, the kitchen was covered in bags of flour, crates of eggs, containers of baking powder and salt, fresh raspberries, and lots and lots of butter. Sherlock stood in the midst of all of it like a general surveying the battlefield, sleeves rolled up to his forearms and an apron tied far too snugly around his waist. He clapped his hands once, then spun to John, who, seeing as he had the day off from the clinic, was watching this unfold from his chair in the sitting room.

"So. I have the recipe for the Viennese Whirls and all the ingredients, including those for the jam- John, what are you doing over there? It helps to be in the kitchen when you're baking, you know."

"Wait, what?" 

"Baking, John. It was even your idea, don't tell me you've forgotten already."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Since when do you let me help with your experiments?"

"The more bakers there are, the larger the sample size will be. The larger the sample size, the more data I can acquire. Do try to keep up." His tone was impatient, but his eyes held a spark of mischief.

"Is that your way of saying you want me to help you so that you can eat more biscuits?" John teased.

Sherlock's lips quirked. "Why John, you wound me. Surely you know this is all in the name of science."

"Oh, but of course. So sorry, Sherlock," John said, rolling up his jumper sleeves and grinning widely. His plan to cheer Sherlock up had caught on, and now all that was left was to make the whirls without screwing too much up.

That shouldn't be too hard, right?

~~~

“Relax, Sherlock. Remember? No time limit, no pressure,” John chided over the detective’s shoulder. Sherlock was maneuvering the potato masher stiffly, the unfamiliar device awkward in his grip. 

Sherlock turned to glance at John, the latter noticing a smidge of raspberry on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth that’d splashed up. When those lips started to make words, John snapped to attention. 

“Care to try yourself then, Watson?”

“Of course, Holmes,” John grinned and took the tool, twisting and mashing the raspberries into a pulp and keeping it low in the pan to avoid splatter (very unlike Sherlock’s aggressive attempt). Sherlock glanced at the result, pale eyes calculating as he grabbed a pen and his notebook to record.

He swiped the sugar from the tall cabinet and traded places with John, turning up the heat and pouring it in. “Seeds or no seeds?” he prompted, stirring with a wooden spoon.

“You broke the sieve months ago, so we have to have seeds,” John said. He turned to the table where the recently frozen butter was sitting, checking how soft it was now.

“Mrs. Hudson has one.”

John, satisfied with the butter, unwrapped it to put in the mixing bowl. “Yeah, the one you broke months ago.” Sherlock paused and blinked with realization, suddenly recalling the incident in vivid detail. John’s lips quirked at the short huff he gave in response.

“Seeds are good.”

John laughed and reached around Sherlock at the stove, twisting the dial to preheat the oven. “Jam finished yet?” 

Sherlock shrugged and lifted the spoon, dripping a dollop on his index finger to taste. He licked it away and nodded, turning the heat up more. “All mixed, boils for four more minutes.”

John took the utensil and tried a bit himself. He sucked at his fingertip thoughtfully, satisfied with the product. He noticed Sherlock tilting his head and staring at the doctor, then shaking it as if to clear it. “Any good?”

“Very. You might have to make just this for toast in the morning.” Sherlock smiled and took back the spoon to stir, keeping the raspberry from burning. John moved back to his work at the biscuit mix.

“Baking sheets!” he exclaimed suddenly, mid-measuring the icing sugar. He opened a top cabinet and spied the parchment on the top shelf, sighing at the height. He turned to grab a table chair to stand on, when Sherlock noticed and walked over. He placed a hand on John’s good shoulder and stretched up to reach the cardboard box. 

John glanced at the tie on Sherlock’s apron loosening. “Hold on,” he said, moving behind him and replacing the almost-undone slipknot with a neat bow. 

A small smile played at Sherlock’s lips, there for a quick second, then falling away. “Thank you.”

John nodded, glancing once again at the raspberry smudge that still lingered on Sherlock’s face.

~~~

That smudge of jam was going to be the death of John Watson. It would be perfect, a scene from a Hallmark movie: 'oh, you've got a little jam,' and then to reach out, maintain flirty eye contact, and, and just… 

But Sherlock Holmes and Hallmark didn't exactly exist in the same universe. The same strain of reality, actually. 

So John turned back to the lower cabinets and got out the baking sheets while decidedly _not_ looking at his flatmate's mouth. "Two sheets?" 

"Didn't you read the recipe? It said three, and since we're making double we'll need six."

"Sherlock, you do realize 221B Baker Street is not in possession of six baking sheets, much less ovens enough to put them in. I doubt even 221A has that many. We'll do it in batches," John said firmly. 

Sherlock blinked at him as if he was recalibrating his entire hypothesis on the experiment and who knows, maybe he was. So John simply set to work on covering the sheets in parchment paper. 

And still the smudge of jam looked on. 

John supposed he could just tell Sherlock he had something on his face, but that seemed rather rude. It's quite another thing to make a… gesture out of it, something doting and not at all nit-picky and _Jesus Christ_ he needed to stop bloody thinking about it!

He glanced at the recipe still open on Sherlock's mobile and saw that they had to make 8 identical five-centimeter circles on each sheet, tracing a 'round cutter' that they certainly didn't have in this laboratory of a kitchen. 

"Sherlock, it says here we need something 5cm round to trace for-" he turned around to see Sherlock with a very smug look on his face (that paired quite well with that raspberry jam), with an empty graduated cylinder in one hand and a pencil in the other. 

"You mean like this?" Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow and turning the cylinder against the light as if inspecting it. "Base precisely five centimeters in diameter, infinitely more precise than any 'round cutter.'"

"Perfect, then. Ever the innovator," John said with a wink, and he could have sworn a blush began creeping up Sherlock's neck before he spun away to trace the circles.

John turned back to the bowl of dry ingredients and added one more spoonful of icing sugar to make 50g. He was sure to microwave the butter before dumping that in the bowl as well.

"Sherlock, where's the…" he looked up and saw Sherlock hunched over the cooling saucepan of jam, the spoon frozen incriminatingly halfway to his mouth. "...Mixer."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "In the cabinet to your left." The spoon fell back in the pot with a wet splat, and he dusted his apron off poshly. John rolled his eyes. "Christ, can't you behave yourself for five minutes?" 

His words were exasperated, but he could hardly keep himself from grinning fondly. This man, he thought bemusedly, was going to be the death of him. He shouldn't have been as okay with that as he was.

"It's for science, John," Sherlock said, lifting his chin belligerently, eyes sparkling with something caught halfway between defensive and amused. 

And as John found himself incapable of tearing his gaze away from those beautiful blue-green-grey eyes, he noticed a new smudge of jam, this one right under his bottom lip.

"Seems as though 'science' has left some evidence," John said with a smirk, voice much lower than he had intended as his stare inadvertently flicked back down to Sherlock's lips. 

That actually hadn't been supposed to come out at all, much less so suggestively. But at his tone of voice Sherlock's gaze sharpened, and John found himself unwilling to back down, even as his pulse sped up. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. 

"Has it now?"

"So it would seem." John stepped forward, slowly, closing the distance between them but giving Sherlock time to move away if he wanted to. 

Sherlock didn't move away. He leaned forward. And as he finally, finally raised his hand to Sherlock's face, John realized somewhat hysterically that there was currently way too much tension in this little room to be in the least bit reminiscent of a Hallmark movie. 

He held Sherlock's gaze as he brought his thumb up to gently wipe the jam from his chin, allowing his fingertip to graze the bottom of his lip. Sherlock's pupils dilated visibly-- and then a loud, shrill beeping filled the kitchen. 

They both jumped, then laughed at themselves as the tension of the past minute melted into embarrassed amusement. 

"Guess the oven's ready," John said, still chuckling, and turned back to the bowl of sugar and now entirely melted butter.

"Obviously. We must get to work, then." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recipe for Viennese Whirls that we referenced: http://www.maryberry.co.uk/recipes/great-british-bake-off-recipes/viennese-whirls
> 
> Ace: Hello! I hope you guys enjoyed this fic and I advise all of you to check out @a_feral_creative for some 10/10 content - a very talented author!  
> Feral: Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed :) Do yourself a favour and read @GoldenAceCard 's other works as well, they're fantastic!
> 
> Thanks for reading kiddos!
> 
> -Ace & Feral


	2. Far Exceeded My Wildest Expectations

John came back from 221A with the medium and large star nozzles to find one Sherlock Holmes sifting icing sugar rapidly, creating a haze of powder around him. A fine dust of white had (somehow) made a halo in his inky curls. John came up next to him as he finished and started with the electric mixer.

He spooned the biscuit mix into a piping bag and started on the swirled rounds. He wasn’t entirely focused as he kept casting side glances to the madman beside him and that _damned smudge of jam still on his face_. The droning of the mixer abruptly stopped and John found himself making (albeit slightly awkward) eye contact with his flatmate. 

He cleared his throat and turned back to the whirls, the two he’d made so far looking more like piles. A blush swept across his face -- whether from embarrassment at his own piping skills or merely Sherlock’s presence beside him he didn’t quite know at this point.

“Here, let me,” Sherlock prompted. Instead of taking the bag from John and doing it himself, like John figured he (or a normal person) would, he placed his hands over John’s and guided his motions. That blush from before was definitely burning scarlet now.

They continued for the rest of one tray before Sherlock relented and went back to the filling. John felt the tension loosen again, which was both relieving and disappointing. 

He continued on to the second tray while observing Sherlock make yet another splatter in their kitchen.

“First conclusion drawn,” John commented, “without environmental pressure, bakers are much more inclined to be an absolute mess.” He chuckled at Sherlock’s and his aprons covered in enough ingredients to make another batch of biscuits.

Sherlock glanced around at the counters and grinned, swiping a dollop of filling off the bowl’s edge to taste. “Not bad.” 

“‘Course it’s good, it’s sugar and vanilla.” John gently pushed Sherlock out of the way to open the oven door, putting the two trays side by side and setting the kitchen timer. 

They both paused as the timer started to tick, not entirely sure what to do or what the other was going to do. John looked at Sherlock and abruptly found himself suddenly very, very frustrated.

The jam was still there, but what was more infuriating was the new streak of buttercream trailing past. 

This man was going to kill him and be the only one clever enough to solve the murder. 

Sherlock finally looked back at him and tilted his head, calculating the odd expression on John’s face, and that was _it_ for John Watson. 

“For Christ’s sake-” his words were cut off as he attacked (there was no other word for it) Sherlock in a long-overdue kiss. Sherlock responded immediately and John knew he’d predicted this, the bastard.

John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s icing-dusted hair and tasted raspberry buttercream on his lips. Sherlock pulled him closer by the waist, their height difference causing him to lean and John to raise himself on his toes. 

They broke off after a century, grinning at each other. Sherlock ran a hand through John’s hair, now also lightly coated in powder. “Took you long enough, Watson.”

~~~

"Oh sorry, it's just that there was a smudge of jam on your... mouth..." John said with a smirk, licking his lips where the flavor of raspberry, buttercream, and _Sherlock_ still lingered. 

Sherlock scoffed, but his eyes followed the motion of John's tongue. "I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long." 

John rolled his eyes, leaning up to nip Sherlock's lower lip in retribution. "You had this all worked out, didn't you?"

"Mm. Of course." 

John felt like he should probably be irritated by this, or at least mildly agitated, but he wasn't. He couldn't be, not with Sherlock's pupils visibly dilated and the negligible distance between them making obvious his pulse _thump-thump_ ing as fast as John's own. Instead, he was incandescent. Overjoyed. Hopelessly in love.

"You're a madman," John sighed fondly. Sherlock's resulting smile was big enough to reach up and crinkle the corners of his eyes.

"So you've said. I remember the first time you called me that..." he sighed faux-wistfully, "That post on your dreadful blog, how did it go again? 'Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.'" He mimed typing it out stutteringly with two pointer fingers, and John slapped his hands away with an exasperated laugh. 

"Still holds true, though. You are a madman," said John, leaning his head against Sherlock's chest. 

"And you're still an idiot," added Sherlock, propping his head on top of John's and wrapping his arms around him.

"But you're _my_ madman." That hadn't been meant to come out sounding as possessive as it did, and John immediately started praying to whatever higher power might exist that Sherlock wouldn't take offense and back off. But thankfully his fears were unfounded. 

"Yes, yes I am. I always have been," was Sherlock's response, and then he added, "And you're my idiot." 

And then John silenced him with a long, long kiss.

That was not necessarily chaste. And that may or may not have ended up cross the room on the sofa, with both gasping and groping with no intention of stopping - until they were interrupted for the second time that day by the _bloody sodding oven timer._

"Oh my God," John groaned, his head dropping to Sherlock's shoulder beneath him. "Just when we finally…"

Sherlock grumbled his assent, "I know. God, I know. But they are going to burn if you don't get off me."

"And I'm going to combust if I do get off you."

"Quite the predicament we've found ourselves in," Sherlock said, and heaved himself upright, John ending up half-in his lap. "Come on, let's get the biscuits." 

And when John still found himself unable to get up, he felt Sherlock sigh heavily. He anticipated Sherlock's Emergency Coercion Tactics even before his breath ghosted hot against his ear.

"And then..." Sherlock began lowly, knowing full well what that voice did to John's cardiac well-being, "...we can finish what we started..." A damn manipulative kiss to the tender skin just behind his ear, "...in a far more... suitable location."

John was in the kitchen with oven mitts on within a second.

The biscuits were just done, a beautiful pale golden hue, and as they cooled John and Sherlock prepared the jam and cream. Once the biscuits were chilled, they worked in comfortable silence: John spooning the jam onto the center of one biscuit, Sherlock piping the buttercream on top and setting it back on the cooling rack where John topped it with the other biscuit.

"Ready for the moment of truth?" John asked once they were finished, but Sherlock had already taken a gigantic bite out of the nearest and was scrawling notes in his Experiment Notebook. John rolled his eyes and took a bite of the biscuit in Sherlock's free hand, currently being held absently in the air. 

Sherlock made an indignant noise that sounded an awful lot like a squawk and snatched his hand back, pen slipping out of his other hand unnoticed. "That's mine, get your own!"

"Mmbh mph brmf," John defended articulately, crumbs falling from his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and started over. "But yours tastes better," he crooned, and pressed a sticky kiss to Sherlock's temple because he could. 

Sherlock, for his part, was mollified, though he tried not to show it. "There is no scientific basis for that statement whatsoever."

"Sure there is. Don't they say chocolate releases the same endorphins as being in love does? Phenythe-something?"

"Phenylethylalanine. Though I fail to understand your logic; even if these pastries did contain chocolate, which they don't, th- what did you say?"

John swallowed. "I said in love."

Sherlock blinked. "Why?" 

"Because, Sherlock Holmes, I am in love with you."

"You are?" Sherlock had pushed his notebook away on the counter and taken a step closer, everything in his posture belying uncharacteristic hesitance, their banter long forgotten. Unable to resist any longer, John pulled him down into his arms, despite Sherlock's sudden rigidness.

"God yes, I am. I am so, so in love with you, Sherlock." 

Then, finally, Sherlock fell into his embrace and pulled John tight against him. When he mumbled something incoherent into his neck, John leaned his head back to hear him. "Say that again?"

"I said 'me too.'"

"You're in love with yourself or you're in love with me?" John teased, and Sherlock rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh.

"I'm in love with you, idiot."

John hummed contentedly and pressed an affectionate kiss to Sherlock's forehead. After a while, he moved to tuck himself into Sherlock's side so he could continue his notes. John got his own biscuit and watched Sherlock write, only able to pick out a few words ( _surprisingly enjoyable, quite sweet, highly productive_ ) from Sherlock's 'notes-for-my-eyes-only' scrawl. 

After a while of writing furiously, Sherlock suddenly put down his pen and announced, "I must say, the results of this experiment far exceeded my wildest expectations."

"Yeah, they're pretty damn good," John agreed, taking a bite of his own biscuit. Sherlock gave him a perplexed look that quickly turned into something soft, and then dismissed it with a wave of his hand. 

"Oh, those too I suppose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ace: Last part, that's all - hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! This probably isn't the last fic we'll post (together or separate) so stick around if you want!
> 
> Feral: Thank you so much for reading, see you next time!
> 
> \- Feral & Ace

**Author's Note:**

> Recipe for Viennese Whirls that we referenced: http://www.maryberry.co.uk/recipes/great-british-bake-off-recipes/viennese-whirls
> 
> Ace: Hello! I hope you guys enjoyed this fic and I advise all of you to check out @a_feral_creative for some 10/10 content - a very talented author!  
> Feral: Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed :) Do yourself a favour and read @GoldenAceCard 's other works as well, they're fantastic!
> 
> Thanks for reading kiddos!
> 
> -Ace & Feral


End file.
